


Wedding Dance

by redonpointe



Series: Ghosts in Red [14]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover Pairings, F/M, First Dance, First Kiss, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 23:45:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redonpointe/pseuds/redonpointe
Summary: Sherlock and Natasha dance at John and Mary's wedding.





	Wedding Dance

**** "Leaving so soon?" Natasha stood in the doorway of the empty coat room with a silky evening clutch in her hands, watching Sherlock sift through a rack of coats in purples and pinks and grays to find his black Belstaff and blue scarf.   


She smiled just a little when he stopped long enough to look at her, his blue eyes flitting and darting down the length of her, lingering on the gold pin holding her hair up as he freed the familiar coat from its hanger.   


"Weddings aren't really my thing," he said. "And you weren't on the guest list, Miss—"  


"Romanov," she supplied, smiling a little wider. "Natasha Romanov and that must've been a mistake, Mary and I have been friends a long time."  


Sherlock strode over as she set her bag on a nearby table, and up close, his eyes were bluer and softer than she might've otherwise expected. She held his gaze, straightening to her full height as he came to a stop in front of her.  


"I went through the guest list myself, Miss Romanov, there was no mistake.” He crowded into her personal space, smelling like expensive cologne and champagne and _him_. "Tell me," he continued, voice low and rich as velvet. "You don't call, don't interact on social media, and Mary hasn't so much as mentioned you during the whole of her wedding plans." She watched his eyes drift down the length of her again, skin tingling like he'd actually touched her. "What sort of friend are you?"  


"Maybe just the sort that crashes the wedding and bribes the Best Man with a dance." Natasha smiled again, offering one of her hands as their eyes met. "There's no danger in one dance, is there?"  


Sherlock eyed her palm as if he were considering her offer, and she should know better than to put herself in his way, she _should_ , she knew _._  


Sherlock Holmes had made a name for himself as the world’s most observant man, uncovering secrets, solving mysteries, catching criminals. She was a spy and an assassin currently off the grid and on the run, with enemies old and new nipping at her heels. Sherlock was dangerous. And when he looked at her like that, with his brows drawn low and his pupils dilated in ways that made her heart beat a little faster, she knew the smart thing to do, the thing she’d been _trained_ to do, was run the other way.

He tossed his coat and scarf over the same table she’d left her purse. "That would depend entirely on one's dance partner,” he said with small, almost boyish smile.   


He closed his fingers around hers, tugging her into the room and against his chest in a dramatic spin as he plucked the gold pin from her hair. Red waves tumbled out of the elegant twist, tickling the bare skin of her back. 

Natasha exhaled a soft, breathy laugh, but didn’t protest. She liked the look of earnest curiosity in his eyes just a little too much.

"Japanese in origin, obviously," he said, holding the pin up to the crystal chandelier. "Gold, heavy, custom-made. Cherry blossom carving suggests November, making it seasonal."

She wound her arms around his neck while he spoke. "Gift?"

His cheeks dimpled like he wanted to smile again. "No," he said. "You're unmarried, and you don't keep in contact with old friends, but you crash their weddings. Suggests distance. Emotional, if not physical. There's no one to gift you this, certainly no one close enough to go through the additional expense of customizing it, which means you bought this for yourself." He handed her the pin, watching as she took it from his fingers with another smile.

She tucked it into an inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket and he circled his arms around her waist, pulling her closer still. "I hope you know how to put it back," she deadpanned as they began to move. She laced her fingers behind his neck, gently brushing her thumb over his skin. "Otherwise people might talk."

His voice was a low rumble against her chest. "Would they? What about?" 

“You, me, the amazing sex we probably had here in the coat room, what with my hair down when it should’ve been up, and my red lipstick on your skin, and all,” she replied, and he blinked at her like she'd caught him off guard. "We really are old friends," she added, changing the subject entirely. She was being honest, though, as honest as she could be under the circumstances. ”Mary and I, I mean. We go a long way back, it just hasn't always been easy to keep in touch.”

Sherlock hummed, but she could tell he believed her. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to be believed, except he looked at her like he _saw_ her and it was nice to be seen. Or maybe it was just nice to be seen by _him_.

Sherlock smoothed a warm hand up the bare skin of her back, tangled his fingers in her hair when he reached the tips. “Who are you, really?”

 “Who do you want me to be?”  


“You,” he answered without missing a beat, never looking away. “Show me.”

Natasha curled her fingers around his gray silk tie, carefully tugged him down to her height and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. She could feel his breath warm on her skin, could feel his fingers tighten their grip in her hair, unconsciously pressing her closer. 

She whispered in his ear. “I like you, Sherlock Holmes,” she said. “Exactly as you are.” She pulled back just enough to press their foreheads together, her fingers still curled around his tie. 

He breathed with her and she bit back a smile. “Will I see you again?”

“I’ll find you,” she promised.

“When?”

“When my life is my own again.” She kissed him full on the lips before he could ask what she meant, letting go of his tie only to cup his face in her hands. He tasted like champagne, and when he kissed her back, lips moving almost hesitantly against hers, she all but melted in his arms. 

“I’ll find you,” she breathed again as she broke away, allowing herself only one last look into those blue eyes before she snatched her coat, grabbed her purse, and disappeared out the door. 

If he whispered, ‘Or I’ll find _you_ ’, as he stared after her, pulling the pin from his pocket, she would never know.

It was lost in the music.


End file.
